Está es la palabra antigua de los Sikuani, palabra de consejo. La historia cuenta la subida al cielo de los dioses ancestrales Tsamanimonae petaxünamuto. Después de la subida al cielo de los dioses los seres humanos comenzaron a pelear y a causar desorden y este desequilibrio trajo como consecuencia el diluvio.

Podcas Tsamanimonae Parte 2 diluvio

my dear,
how I adored you! your comforting cunt led me through the darkness of my forties. there was plenty of darkness between us. enough darkness to feel hidden and safe within each other. sometimes it was so dark an usher would appear with a lantern to show us our place in bed, and i would tip him. sometimes -at some point in any of your visits- it was so cold a big moose with enormous horns would show up its snout inside our white walled igloo -breath looking like smoke in the cold air- and we would stare at it, enthralled. we always knew there was stuff inside each one of us that could blossom and ruin our lives. a premonition of decadence, precisely. but then, there was the unimaginable exhilaration of some random moments, never before felt w/this intensity. there was the poetry, the minds. the unutterable. you left, and art stayed. nature is wise. the purpose of Art is to seduce oneself to a continuation of life. however, now and then i still feel there’s nothing to write about. you know well that sadness.
life goes on, and i go on with it, interested in everything and everyone, but w/o really attaching, I wouldn’t know how to, you know my empathy is poor; scattered interesting moments, many books, alcoholism, a girl loves me, young, she carves social skills in me, conversation, and I carve back poetry into her, she writes too. it will end, of course. no delusions. every time. and when she’s around peace slowly descends across my place sometimes as if it were the night & all the noise goes away. 
but i remember i respect i kneel i admire you, no matter what. i will until the end. we were pushing each other to create like off a cliff. literary flaneurs. we were the only, the true sovereigns of Art. sometimes Art a divinity. some other times a dump, a shit hole. ladies & gentlemen! please welcome the royals of the slum! the heralds of nothing! but wow. during those months i clearly told Death to fuck off. showed my ass to Her, irrespectfully. of course, she never went away, she just pretended. even Death can have moments of attachment, of mercy. Death knew how to wait patiently at the End of us, silently, looking us back from there -mesmerized- while we fucked, we wrote, happy, unaware.
in my ego-driven dreams we were a legend. not a love story, an epic tale. songs sung after us. an arrow in the air. still the taste of my cum and beer in my mouth. apres nous, le deluge, y’know. how vain. love expected nothing less from us. grandeur! victory! a larger-than-life story, think howl meets arbol de diana meets nausea meets patti smith coming to blows in seedy bars meets anyone having been a junkie meets chained elephants meets someone jumping off a bridge meets bondage sessions meets a literary magazine meets dead bodies swollen by worms meets a dripping cunt meets manuscripts meets dexedrine. dexedrine-like minds. but we couldn’t keep it safe. we were full of shit. I wouldn’t dare to say ‘like everybody else’. we were certainly more full of shit than anyone else. we a metaphor of forget now. but it felt so damn good. it felt astonishingly unique & precious while it lasted.
sometimes i dream about you standing there in front of the save-the-dolphins-in-Taiji-Cove army flag with your legs spread. wearing only some weird military boots. in my dreams you never smile. now and then I need to write about you to make sure you still around, somewhere.
the baggage got too heavy, we had to put it down, that’s all. we were meant to change each other and disappear. unblemished by the slow coldness taking over every lasting story. destined to touch each other truly and then the autopsy, bodies still warm with love. conversation is still difficult, i guess it will always be. or maybe one day we’ll learn how to share (???). don’t know, but the outcome does not matter. what we left in written does. what we went through does(...)


pigsty

misanthrrrope

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